


Circle Pranks

by Rosehip, Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: The Bournshire Boys [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cullen's Wicked Grace story, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied Smut, Improper Use of Warmth Balm, Lamppost in Winter, M/M, Pranks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7681228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The templar recruits from Bournshire get into mischief during their week at Kinloch Hold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Kinloch Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Toward the end of 9:24 Dragon
> 
> Cullen is about 13 and Alistair is about 14. Their classmates are approximately the same age. 
> 
> If you're here for the Anders/Karl, you can skip to chapters 4, 12, and 13. There's a group of templar trainees visiting Kinloch this week, causing all sorts of trouble. Karl is pretty sure he can use it to his advantage...
> 
> This work will include cameos of Rosehip's (soon to be Warden) Macsen Surana from her Strange Luck series, which will be a full retelling of Origins. Check that out at http://archiveofourown.org/series/519361  
> I adore Macsen, you should really meet him, too. Macsen is 12 during this visit.

Kinloch Hold, the home of Fereden’s Circle, engulfed an island in the middle of Lake Calanhad, only a piece left uncovered by the ancient building. Cullen was eager to see the inner workings of a Circle. They’d visited a village Chantry, but there were no actual mages. Too much like Honnleath.

 

Cullen didn’t know why Alistair complained about winter travel. They never contended with real snow, previous traffic pounded away the ice, and the Chantry provided thick cloaks against the chill. To Cullen, the cold-weather camping was part of their training. As templars, they might travel on short notice to provide back-up or find an apostate.

 

The roommates rode in a tiny boat with their classmates Bradan, a round-faced and friendly kid, and Turlach, whose thick eyebrows often arched in delight. This was the boat’s second trip, out of four needed to get the entire class and Sister Sienna to the Tower.

 

“I wonder if the mage I met is still at this Circle.” Alistair mused as he stared south over the water, toward Redcliff.

 

“What was their name?” Cullen asked, ignoring Alistair’s privileged life there.

 

Alistair blinked, focused. “I’m not sure. It was years ago. Was he Olaf? Odhran? Olwen?”

 

“I’m sure Olwen is a woman’s name.” Cullen smiled at his roommate. They pulled up to the dock. The boat master held steady to let everyone onto the small scrap of rock that hadn’t fallen into the lake yet.

 

A familiar templar in armor was there to greet them. “Cullen, Alistair! Welcome to the Tower. Who are your friends?”

 

Alistair unknowingly rescued Cullen. “Ser Clancy, meet Bradan and Turlach. Bradan and Turlach, meet Ser Clancy.”

 

They expressed pleasure at meeting as Cullen remembered traveling with Ser Clancy months ago to get to Bournshire. “Glad to see you again, Ser Clancy,” Cullen affirmed. They ambled across the rocky exercise yard in front of the entryway door to await the other half of their class.

 

Leolin sulked to one side while Eirnin and Farris discussed whether you could identify a blood mage on sight. Eirnin’s black hair stood straight up, and his intense blue eyes glowed as he made his point. Farris waved, and the new boatload joined their discussion. This conversation lasted until the next boat arrived. That carried Padraig and Rian, who relieved Leolin of his isolation. Sieffre joined Cullen’s group to wait for the last boat, and their discussion shifted to whether templars could improve relations with mages, in spite of the dangers. As Drystan disembarked, he was chatting with Cabhan. Cullen wondered how Sister Sienna had pulled that off as the recruits joined Cullen and Leolin, respectively.

 

Sister Sienna glanced around, counting heads perhaps. “Shall we begin, Ser Clancy?”

 

“Certainly. Let’s start with a tour of the facility. This is the ground floor…”

 

Cullen found templar organization satisfying. Templars inside recorded everyone’s arrival in the official log and showed them where to mark their departure in a week. Next, Ser Clancy guided the cohort through the first, second, and third floors. Cullen tried to build a mental map as they went: first floor, apprentices and library; second floor, full mages; third floor, space for meals, food preparation, and assemblies. Sister Sienna left the tour at the Chantry on the second floor, commending the class into Ser Clancy’s capable hands.

 

On the fourth floor, they received a more detailed tour of the templar areas for training and operations.  The mages’ first-floor library was massive, but the templar collection would never inspire shame.

 

“Hey, Cullen, you don’t have to study so hard. There are so many books! You can continue improving once you’re here.”

 

Cullen grinned back at Alistair, watching for Ser Clancy to start speaking again. “I’d rather just be the best when I start.”

 

Alistair rolled his eyes. “The best, boringest templar.”

 

“You made that word up.”

 

“Nope,” Alistair rejoined, “I read it. You’d miss it, it wasn’t in a textbook.”

 

Cullen snorted as the tour passed from the central round room with most of the templar’s books. They glanced into smaller rooms for study and weapons practice. Next, they entered a long, cone-shaped room with book-bound records for tracking “mages of concern,” plus major changes of ability or personality in any mage. This was also where templars stored completed log books.

 

Ser Clancy taught the recruits about “schools” and “fraternities.” Mages studied within their chosen schools of magic. Full mages joined a fraternity when they wanted to indicate their political stance. The mages kept those records, which they shared with the templars upon request. This brought many questions to Cullen’s mind, which he hesitated to ask until Bradan’s red hand shot into the air. His questions showed that Cullen’s classmates were just as ignorant in this. After that, Cullen and Bradan kept Ser Clancy’s head swiveling back and forth to answer questions. Ser Clancy started many of his answers with “In this Circle…” or “I don’t know how the mages do it elsewhere, but here we’ve found…”

 

Finally, he called off further questions. “We’ll stop there. By the time you apply for your placement, details will have changed. Besides, it’s not templar business: we watch for trouble. Of course, trouble comes from the Libertarians before the Loyalists. Usually.

 

“It’s time to finish the tour. The last stop is the barracks.” Three doors cradled this room’s narrow end. They’d entered through the left door. Ser Clancy led them through the middle door, back into the central room with the books and study tables. A few full templars now practiced their Maker-given abilities. Pale blue light flashed from their hands and made the air rumble. A metallic tang Cullen couldn’t name filled the air: blood? Cloves? Dreams? Cullen focused on Ser Clancy’s words. “We sent a contingent to support templars in southeastern Ferelden; they may have discovered a large cult of blood mages.”

 

Ser Clancy headed straight for the closest door on the right, away from practicing templars. “They are not expected back until next week, so we have plenty of room for you.” Cullen recognized the small hall they had entered when they came up from the third floor. Ser Clancy opened the left of two doors. “This is the room without spare beds– Hello, boys!” The dozen or so templars inside looked smaller in normal uniforms instead of armor. If initiates wore the colors of sunlight and rust, full templars wore the colors of a wildfire. In the rest of the Tower, templars leaned against walls and pillars. Here, they sat on their wide beds to chat. Dozens of beds were empty, but neatly made. The chatting templars waved at Ser Clancy and the recruits, causing the embroidered Swords of Mercy to flicker on their tunics. Then the men returned to their quiet conversations.

 

Ser Clancy closed that door, stepped right a few paces, and opened the next door. “And here’s your room. We make our own bunks. Bedding is in the footlocker.” What he called “bunks” were full-size beds, twice as wide as the cots at the monastery. Cullen did a quick count: there were just enough unmade beds to accommodate the recruits. Several younger templars were reading or dozing. Weapon and armor racks stood by for emergencies.

 

“Visiting recruits are confined to this floor except for dinner and patrols. Because you don’t have your full powers yet, patrolling recruits are always paired with a templar. You will wear full armor any time you are not on this floor. Our spare sets will only be a little big. Dinner is in an hour. Settle in; meet the templars here. See you at dinner.”

 

As soon as Ser Clancy closed the door, Farris ran to a cluster of four available beds in the left row. “Hey, Cullen,” he yelled, “hurry! This way we can all be together.” He set a hand on one of the middle beds as Alistair stepped toward a bed to the right.

 

Something Cullen had noticed about Leolin: anything someone else wanted, he wanted. Instead of provoking a direct confrontation, he spoke to the worried-looking templar resting on the bed next to the empty ones. “Would it be alright if we” – and here he gestured to his three cronies – “stayed in these beds this week?”

 

The dark-haired templar relaxed and said “Naturally.” He then turned to Farris: “I assume that will not be a problem?”

 

Farris’ hand left the bed as if it had caught fire. Cullen heard a nervous snicker from Alistair as he dug sheets from a trunk. “No, that’s – fine.”

 

Cullen helped Farris out. “We have five, anyway. It wouldn’t have worked. How about over here?” He gestured to the right, including Alistair with the flick of his hand.


	2. Farris Fumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble to show another angle on the dynamics between the Bournshire boys, including my OC's.

“I hate Leolin, talking his hot shit, acting better when he’s not.” 

Farris’ friends made sympathetic noises, but Alistair chewed his bread. Why sit here? Oh, right, better ignored and overlooked than dragged into the nearest storeroom to practice his role as a punching bag. 

“He’ll get his, just you wait. What I’m gonna do to him… it’s gonna hurt.” 

Drystan pushed against him. “Farris, don’t start trouble: he didn’t touch you.” Alistair’s shoulders eased. 

“He’s done too much, too many times, and we never get him back.” 

“So what? Nobody’s keeping score.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong. The other recruits and the Sisters are watching for weakness. Remember: our Circle assignment might be with recruits from Bournshire, or at Kinloch Hold. Do you think the Chantry isn’t keeping records on us? They’ll pass that information on wherever we’re assigned. It could affect our career.”

Alistair blinked at the way Farris leaned into that last word. He was baiting one recruit with his increasingly paranoid claims. Cullen: always so focused on becoming the templar, being the best. Alistair glanced that way. Cullen was quiet, brow furrowing, staring at his plate. Alistair tensed again, worse than before. Why did Farris have to drag others into his vendetta? Over beds! Not that Leolin didn’t have it coming for reasons Farris was content to ignore and overlook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (unless something else crops up)  
> Rosehip has graciously let me borrow her young Warden OC, Macsen Surana.  
> Cullen watches his first mage class!  
> (Amell is there, too.)


	3. Cullen Attends Magic Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen practices guarding the young mages and meets Owain. Macsen Surana excels in class. Silvana Amell smiles at Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a crossover with Rosehip's Strange Luck series. She gets co-authorship because Macsen is her creation, and Silvana is our co-creation. 
> 
> Cullen is very good at guessing ages.

All books were at least twenty feet from any apprentice. The flames wreathing apprentices’ hands terrified most of them. It became worse when their instructor taught them to throw fire at several stone targets along the outer wall, spaced two feet apart, about ten feet from the apprentices’ row. The instruction itself made no sense to Cullen, referring to elements and lighting a candle with magic and describing how to twist magical energy in precise detail. 

An older apprentice, not far from his Harrowing, produced a steady stream, but he shook out the flames, blowing on his burned fingers. Several others shot bursts of maybe a foot or two, cringing as they did. 

“Grasp your power with both hands! Draw from your connection to the Fade. Embrace it without fear!” The tall, bald instructor’s direction made the apprentices even more nervous. 

“Wow,” Cullen breathed into his helmet. He’d never seen magic done. Ages vary more in mage classes than in templar cohorts, but these apprentices were within a few years of Cullen and most of them were producing flame from nothing. 

“They get better,” said Ser Clancy. He nodded toward one student. “He will progress faster than the rest.” The young elf Ser Clancy pointed out was in the line between a particularly frustrated mage boy and a girl with cinnamon brown eyes, both human. All three dark-haired apprentices stayed separate from the others. The elf experimented, then cast the spell as easily as breathing, bathing the stone targets in fire without a trace of fear. “Creepy undead magic or no, Macsen will never get possessed.” 

Demons could possess mages at any time. The instructor’s references to power and the Fade might stir up this fear. “Does possession happen often at Kinloch?” Cullen inquired, working on the pitch of his voice. Ser Clancy’s words nearly blended with the general murmur of conversation, yet Cullen heard each one. A neat trick the boy tried to emulate now. 

Ser Clancy sounded proud. “A full mage hasn’t been possessed at Kinloch in thirty years. Too bad you weren’t here last week, we held a party with cake and everything. Knight-Commander Gregoir and the First Enchanter gave speeches.” 

That explained the flashy, tattered paper bits they’d seen in the mess hall, cut to the shape of “30.” Alistair had been speculating on their arcane uses. Cullen chuckled, imagining his roommate’s disappointment. 

Class ended when the room began to swelter. Students propped open doors to heat the rest of the floor. At Bournshire, the kids would have moved to the next class. At Kinloch, the apprentices stayed, chatting, and the teacher left. Cullen smiled as he imagined the Chantry sisters trying to work in Kinloch’s open spaces while nearby things exploded. 

A female mage appeared a few moments later, one with pointed ears, short, tumbling auburn hair, and piercing blue-green eyes. “Ser Clancy,” she acknowledged as she passed them. 

“Enchanter Sini.” Ser Clancy nodded. 

Cullen waited until she was several paces away before he commented: “That was frosty.” Especially in contrast to how she treated her students. She clapped her hands to get their attention, then explained her subject with genuine enthusiasm. 

Ser Clancy chuckled low. “You have no idea. A few years ago, she gave me the silent treatment.” The enchanter’s hands glowed as she explained healing with Creation energy, and in the bluish light Cullen could spot a few faint freckles. She easily transfixed her students, too. 

Cullen reminded himself to check the class for trouble. The boy with copper hair and burned fingers imitated her, fingers glowing and healing. When Sini praised him, a slightly older dark-haired kid teased, “Teacher’s pet.” They smirked and poked at each other while Sini helped Macsen, who was struggling. 

Cullen nodded at Macsen. “Are you sure he’ll never be possessed?” he murmured. The kid looked lost now; he was maybe a year younger than Cullen, about 12. 

Ser Clancy nodded. “Strong emotion can lead to possession. Macsen is not scared. I’m more worried about his friends, Jowan and Silvana.” Cullen pegged Jowan for the oldest of the trio, around 16, and Silvana a year or so younger than that. A phrase jumped to mind: the student overtakes the master. Where had he heard that? 

Jowan failed the first few tries, just like Macsen, but he responded to failure with visible frustration. Silvana, the girl on Macsen’s right, soon picked it up and became delighted with the glowing blue light. She tried to heal Macsen’s hair, which made no sense. Cullen smiled. “Oh, come now, the girl’s harmless.” 

“She is now, but what if anyone tries to harm her friends? How desperate might she become to protect them? Desperation drives mages to do terrible things. Don’t let a pretty face cloud your judgment.” Cullen glanced at Ser Clancy, whose gaze slid reluctantly to Sini again. 

“Why did Sini refuse to talk to you a few years ago?” 

“Enchanter Sini, Cullen. A mutual friend asked me to wield the Brand for him. Unfortunately, Owain didn’t tell Enchanter Sini ahead of time, so she had trouble accepting it.” 

“What’s the Brand?” 

“I forgot, you’re new. Have you heard of the mage rite of passage, the Harrowing?” Cullen nodded. “Some apprentices fear failing the Harrowing. Rather than risk it, these mages decide to sever their connection to the Fade. It’s called Tranquilling, or becoming Tranquil.” 

Cullen’s eyebrows rose, and he could not speak for a few seconds. “What? That can be done? But – why don’t we Tranquil mages when they’re discovered? They would be safe, then.” But he stopped at Ser Clancy’s wide eyes and tensing posture. 

“Absolutely not. You don’t understand,” Ser Clancy responded, louder than Cullen thought the situation called for, a little more… carrying. The class was practicing their work in pairs and small groups, so his words filled the room. “Owain was – so compassionate, freely giving of himself as a listener and a friend. Yes, he had fears, but he had hopes and dreams, too.” 

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “I thought he was Tranquil, not dead.” 

Ser Clancy shivered. “How do I explain? Look, I’ll get Ser Bran to cover us. You need to meet Owain as he is now.” 

Cullen guarded the class while Ser Clancy fetched the nearby templar. Were Enchanter Sini’s movements less fluid as she helped the groups? The students had stopped their covert horseplay, too. What was going on? 

By his voice, Cullen guessed that Bran was the younger templar who had agreed to let Leolin use the bunks Farris wanted. Bran never removed his helmet, but he covered their post. 

Ser Clancy led Cullen down the stairs and to the mages’ open storeroom on the second floor. A young man with dark, stubbled hair was sorting rods, runes, and other objects Cullen couldn’t name, checking them against a list in one hand. “Owain,” Ser Clancy introduced with forced warmth, “meet Cullen, templar trainee. Cullen, this is Owain, in charge of the mage stockroom.” 

Remembering Ser Bran, Cullen removed his helmet and tucked it under his left arm. He stepped forward, extending the other hand, as Owain turned. He froze when he recognized the Tranquil. “I know you, don’t I?” 

“I apologize,” Owain stated. “Have we met?” Owain glanced at the hand, then allowed it to hang between them.

Cullen dropped it, struck by Owain’s total lack of interest. Four years ago, his expression had been agony. “Not officially. Templars –uh– discovered you in my hometown just before I-I started practicing.” 

“I apologize; I do not remember your face.” The former mage was in his upper twenties, younger if his hair had started receding early. 

“I’m not sure you ever saw it. I had to peek between others to-to catch a glimpse.” 

“That explains it.” 

Ser Clancy interrupted the rustling silence. “Cullen is one of the templar recruits staying at the tower this week.” 

“Ser Kalvin and the others left room for this visit.” 

“Exactly. Owain, Cullen and I were discussing why you become Tranquil.” 

“I was in distress. You helped me, at my request.” 

“How- how?” Cullen stuttered. “Sorry.” 

“You can just see the mark of the lyrium Brand we use to sever the connection. Owain, could you please point to it?” 

“Yes, here it is.” Owain indicated a faint sunburst on his forehead. 

“The mark fades for the Kinloch Hold Tranquil. No one knows why. His will likely be invisible in a few months.”

“I must return to my duties. Did you need anything else?” 

“No, Owain, we’re fine. Thank you.” The warmth in the templar’s voice hadn’t faded, but a rough quality snuck in. 

Without another word, Owain turned back to his list. 

Ser Clancy led Cullen to their post. “You see why that is not an option unless requested.” Ser Clancy’s voice carried again. 

Cullen nodded as he monitored the class, the sweat collected during the earlier lesson cooling his face. Sini still restricted her movements, but the line of her mouth drifted upward at the tips. Silvana flashed him a sudden grin. Startled, Cullen realized she was the first mage to regard him directly. His gaze scuttled down the row. The mischievous boys tentatively elbowed each other again. Cullen watched them, not really seeing. He said nothing for the rest of the class, helmet still tucked under his arm.


	4. Alistair Intrudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny drabble wherein Alistair, the templar initiate, stumbles into a private moment between Anders and Karl. It's not appreciated.

Alistair drew up short before he disturbed the apprentices on the floor. The older one had dark hair and sparse face stubble, while the younger had copper hair, pulled into a low ponytail. A few strands escaped. Both boys were older than Alistair, and they could have their Harrowings any day. 

Between them a kitten with wide eyes hunted a glowing wisp. The boys took turns directing the floating speck of light. They chuckled as the furry butt wiggled, and the younger boy sent the wisp springing away, prompting the kitten to conduct a series of claw-splayed pounces. The boys reached out to each other as they laughed silently, delight bathing their faces, hands touching forearms, mutually linked as they watched the small cat. 

Alistair smiled as he tried to pass by without interrupting. A pebble ground under his mail-booted foot, and both apprentices looked up from their game. 

Their smiles disappeared, eyes locking on Alistair. The older mage slid his hand up the other’s arm to shoulder, leaned in, and whispered something. The younger one didn’t react in any way. Even the kitten crouched behind them, staring. 

The three gazes burned into Alistair as he hurried on his way.


	5. Killer Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macsen gives Cullen a dirty look. Misunderstandings ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosehip gets full credit for this chapter.

Cullen leaned against the wall in the hallway across from Ser Clancy as the mage apprentices headed out of the Great Hall towards the downstairs library. The plan was to stay still and watch. Cullen held himself perfectly straight in his carefully polished Templar uniform. He had replaced his helmet after class, uncomfortable as it was. He felt, as always, determined to do well. The mages would ideally forget he was there and behave normally.

Maybe he simply wasn't very good at this yet because that definitely didn't happen. Not unless mages were twitchy by nature and inclined to hurry even when they had a quarter of an hour to get somewhere in the same building. Templars watched for unusual behavior. So what now? Should he watch for the one person who managed to pull off “casual”?

Great. That would be the girl with the easy smile and cinnamon eyes. The one who wore masculine robes. She strode by with confident grace while her human friend hurried along ahead of her, and her elven friend shot Cullen a wary look that bordered on hostile. Shouldn't that be a warning sign in itself, right there? But Ser Clancy, his instructor, had assured him that the elf had shown no signs of possession, nor ever would.

Cullen believed him, but how did he know? And what should he be looking for, if animosity wasn't it? For that matter, what had Cullen done to earn that look?

Far sooner than was probable, all the mages had vanished down the hall. He and Ser Clancy would wait a few more minutes in case of stragglers or backtracking before joining them in the library. Other Templars would arrive ahead.

Well, he was here to learn. “Ser Clancy? Can I ask a question?”

“Now's a good time for a quick one. Go ahead.”

“What are we looking for, exactly? The Sisters told us to be ever vigilant against any kind of suspicious behavior. But every last one of them demonstrated such, just now.”

“That's not a quick question, but I'll do my best. Look, most of them probably are hiding something; candy stashes and raunchy drawings, mostly. It wouldn't do to waste our energies on those.” Ser Clancy broke off, and efficiently searched the vicinity. “All right, we're actually alone. “If they can get away with a certain amount of misbehavior that doesn't matter, it can prevent larger problems. It keeps them busy and they get to feel like they're putting one over on us.”

“So if we're not looking for just any sign of suspicious activity, what would warrant concern?”

“Actual emergencies involving magic are very obvious, trust me. Cleansing the area goes a long way towards resolving most of them. Beyond that, it helps to know the individual mages well enough to say what is and isn't normal. A dirty look from Surana isn't out of the ordinary. Yes, I saw that.” Ser Clancy gestured down the hall, and they began to walk.

“What caused it, do you know?”

“If you want to ask him yourself when we catch up, that might be best.”

Cullen had hoped to speak to some of the mage apprentices, but didn't relish this as his first conversation with one. Nothing for it, however. He was committed, now. He would simply have to behave as professionally as he could and hope for the best.

When they arrived at the apprentice library, the mages had already begun a wild assortment of pursuits. Some did practical demonstrations for their tutors, some did individual research, and some pretended to. A class for younger mages than the ones they'd observed upstairs had taken over one section. It focused on basic literacy at the moment. Other Templars stood or paced along the walls. Cullen noticed a few of them, also wearing the full helm, stood a little shorter than average. Doubtless those were his classmates, but in the borrowed uniforms, he couldn't identify them.

Ser Clancy tapped him on the shoulder. Cullen heard the plink of metal far more than he felt it. “Go ahead. You can have your conversation in the corridor behind me. I'll cover things here.” Ser Clancy positioned himself near the open door, and pointed out the table on the end where the elf sat, reading a gigantic, cracked leather tome. His friends sat with him, including that pretty girl.

Cullen swallowed, hard. He felt glad nobody could see the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. (It almost made up for the sweat that had been tickling his scalp.) A Templar should not be intimidated by a bit of awkward conversation, or the fact that one of the mages was attractive. He took a breath, steeled his nerves, and strode over to the table.

They'd been reading quietly, but Cullen felt that if they'd been having a conversation, it would have silenced. He stopped near the elf. “Surana, may I have a word with you, please?”

The elf looked up. “Hello, Ser. What is this about?”

Cullen looked down, and barely contained a gasp. The tome had been written in ancient Tevene. An illustration of a tortured looking human skeleton, surrounded by strange, burnished golden glyphs, adorned the left-side page. “Maker, that book...!”

The elf slammed the book shut. “... Was handed to me by Gregoir himself as part of my approved course of study. You can ask him about it if you like.”

That could have gone better. “No, I'm sure that will not be necessary. I was merely surprised. Will you walk with me into the corridor, please?”

“Like I have a choice,” murmured the elf as he fell into step just behind Cullen.

The younger children chorused “oooooh!” behind them. To Cullen's bewilderment, one of them singsonged “Somebody's in trouble!” Everyone over the age of ten stayed silent.

Cullen led Surana back out the door nearest Ser Clancy. The nearness of the man felt like backup.

Cullen cleared his throat. “I wanted to know what provoked the unfriendly look you gave me upstairs.”

The young elf stood as tall as he could manage. “Has that been added to the rules, then? Am I no longer allowed to frown?” Sparks of static danced and crackled between the fingers of the elf's right hand. He made a fist and they vanished.

“Not to my knowledge. I simply wanted to know what I had done to earn it, assuming it was personal. If it wasn't, then forget I said anything.”

Surana's eyebrows shot up an inch. “What you did to...? Oh. That's new. All right, we can talk, but could you take off your helm, please?”

Cullen glanced at Ser Clancy, who nodded.

Cullen slid it off. He hoped he wasn't still blushing. “The helmet bothers you?”

“Thank you. It does, especially if we're going to have a conversation where I'm not in trouble. It's easier to think of you as a person when I can see your face. For one thing, only now do I know for certain that we haven't been introduced. Macsen Surana.”

“Cullen Rutherford. I apologize for not starting there.”

Surana gave a wry smile. “Even you forgot you were a person, didn't you?”

“I am not supposed to be an individual while on duty. I am supposed to melt forgotten into the scenery and watch.”

“Is that what they're telling you guys?!” Blue eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes? I gather it doesn't work out quite that way, from your perspective.”

“No. No it does not. The scenery hasn't got a mind of its own, usually. I mean, sometimes it can, but, well- magic.” The elf waved that thought aside. “The scenery isn't trained to knock me unconscious with a word. The scenery isn't wearing full plate and carrying a weapon or a flask of magic draining poison. You're not scenery. If you're wearing your helmet then you're a person for whom all of that is true and I can't read you at all.”

“Is that so important? Whether you can see my face or not, I wouldn't just... attack you at random.”

“Maybe you wouldn't, but all right, let's go with your scenery example. Say you live in a building full of tables. It's home, and you have everything you need, but there's just these... tables everywhere. Tables that were carefully trained to be especially deadly to humans. They don't have faces, but they have brains and hearts. They can get in moods. And maybe one of them doesn't like curly hair. It thinks everyone with curly hair is a thief and a liar. The tables can move, but you can't tell them apart. How do you spot that table? How do you know if that table is especially angry today? Wouldn't you be happier if someone put a smear of paint on the corner of that one?”

“I am going to have the weirdest nightmares ever, now. But your murderous tables wouldn't be meant to kill just any human, only the ones who were up to no good.”

“People, human-killing tables, any sentient being is going to have bad days, or prejudices, or just be very very tired sometimes. They could make mistakes.”

No wonder the mages practically ran down the hall. This shouldn't be how things were. Templars were supposed to protect, not terrify. “So it's easier to relax around us if you think of us as individuals.”

“By a lot. As a piece of scenery, you're a mystery. As Cullen Rutherford, you're a person who asked what bothered me, albeit in a pretty demanding fashion.”

“All this from a helmet.”

“Well, and I could tell you were new. You were standing like you'd sat on your sword. The new Templars always panic over stuff like book illustrations. Makes my day more interesting than I need.”

Cullen found himself chuckling. The brat was teasing him! Mages could be assholes! With senses of humor! The laughter grew.

“I didn't know I was that funny,” grinned Surana.

“You've got a lot of sass for a kid making fun of a homicidal piece of furniture.” Cullen's words were broken by gasping. He turned to Ser Clancy in the doorway, only to see the man smirking at him. “You! You knew already, Ser! You could have just said.”

“This way I got a story about killer tables,” he replied.


	6. Cold Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leolin meets Macsen and his crew. Templar intervention is required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing credit goes to Rosehip. 
> 
> Check out the previous chapter, Killer Tables, for this creepy book's debut. http://archiveofourown.org/works/7681228/chapters/17669467

The first floor library, a hub of chaos during the day, had emptied of all but three apprentices and two bored looking templars. Peace reigned at last. The enchantments used for warmth and light glowed in the colors of flame. The clerestory windows showed a scattering of bright stars on blue velvet. A winter night this clear, pondered Jowan, promised bitter cold tomorrow.

He stretched, feeling his back pop four or five times. He couldn't believe how much time they'd spent working, today. Even for them, it was getting late. Looking around, he found Macsen still absorbed in taking notes from the creepiest looking book Irving had assigned him, to date. Silvana sheepishly smiled as Jowan caught her eye. A tiny shimmer of blue radiated from each fingertip.

“You like that one, do you?” he asked her.

Silvana grinned wider. “I do. It's so pretty, _and_ useful. Today I really understood it, for the first time ever. I suppose I shouldn't waste my energy, but what else am I going to use it for?” A puff of glowing blue mist swirled around her hand before she banished it. She yawned.

“Making it back to the dormitory? I'm not carrying you.” Jowan shook a mocking finger at her. It was definitely time to head for bed. He was still trying to think of the least naggy way of telling Macsen that the dead-people book would still be there in the morning, when clanking footsteps approached. _Fuuuuck._

The approaching templar, though taller than most of the trainees, radiated inexperience. He swaggered in a way that made the ill-fitting plate rattle far more than it would normally.

The smile slid out of Silvana's eyes even though it stayed on the rest of her. Macsen didn't look up from his book, but froze. “Good evening, Ser,” said Jowan, casually gathering his own work together.

“Good evening, apprentices. Working late, aren't you?”

“We're known for it, yes.” Jowan silently cursed himself. He should have known they shouldn't have been the last ones out. The templar recruits were here to learn, and he and his friends were about to be an object lesson of some kind.

He glanced at the full templar, still standing against the wall by the door. He wore his helm. By that and his height, probably Ser Bran. That wasn't good. He had little patience for “tomfoolery”. They had annoyed him a time or seven.

“I've been trying to think why you look so familiar, but I remember where we've met!” exclaimed the templar recruit, removing his helm and addressing Silvana. “Miss Amell. My family visited Kirkwall one spring. Your family threw a lovely celebration for the noble children.”

“Yes,” she replied. “My grandfather loves to host any kind of event. The more chances to meet people of quality, the better. You've grown into a young man since then, though. I'm afraid I can't place you, Ser...?”

His face darkened a touch. “Leolin. I am pleased to make your acquaintance once more.”

She stood, offering a slight bow. “Likewise, Ser Leolin, but I-”

Jowan spotted the fake remorse on her face. She clearly meant to excuse herself for the evening. Leolin spotted it, as well. And something else.

“Miss! I daresay your grandfather would hardly know you. Why are you not wearing the proper uniform?”

“I've been given dispensation by the first enchanter to wear the men's robes. I found the feminine counterpart unsuitable for my life as a scholar.”

“Your esteemed mother would likewise be shocked at the company you keep, these days.”

Jowan thought it looked like the recruit might be threatening to tell the woman all about it, but he wasn't entirely sure. He wasn't fluent in snobbery-pissing-contest. He certainly wasn't sure what the point would be. He opened his mouth to interrupt but she waved him silent. He understood _that_.

“One never knows who might be a useful acquaintance in time. I'm afraid my definition of 'quality' has come to differ somewhat from that of my family. I hope someday you will agree with me.” She even looked sincere. The smile crept towards her eyes, again.

It did not mollify Leolin. He looked more directly at Jowan and Macsen, distaste and then shock on his face. He slammed his mailed hand onto a page hard enough to dent the old vellum. The illustration depicted a sleepwalking knight surrounded by nightmarish creatures. “An elf bloodmage- useful? Explain yourself, elf! Have you been studying dark magics all evening, out in the open? Think we're all fools, do you? We'll see what the Knight-Commander thinks about that.”

“Leolin, please don't do this. You misunderstand-” snow swirled around her right hand, but the recruit paid her no mind. Distracted now by the promise of actual maleficar asskicking, probably.

_Ugh. Recruits._

“It's not blood- OWWWWWW!” Macsen howled and gripped the recruit's wrist as the latter hauled him out of his chair by one ear. The chair crashed to the floor, splitting the homey silence.

 _Crap, crap, crap, crap,_ thought Jowan. He felt his hands heating up. He favored fire, but that could be so very permanent. _What do I do?_ He reached towards the troublesome book, and the newly-signed permission form tucked inside. “Look. See, he has a-”

Too late. Leolin bloomed with crackling frost crystals, which steamed in the warmth of the library.

Silvana clenched her teeth and readied more energy in her hands. The recruit drew back his free hand to strike her. He never connected. Lightning arced across his body; jerked him up short as though it were a solid thing.

“ _Don't you touch her!_ ” Macsen screamed as the recruit threw him to the floor.

Jowan had half a second to decide how to respond. On the one hand, fire. On the other, books and nearby friends. He breathed in, and exhaled hard. He released the mana explosively at the same time, too quickly to truly form his best element.

A burst of red cracked like thunder; the light impossibly bright.

When Jowan's own vision cleared, the recruit clutched his face. Macsen and Silvana looked at him with twin stunned expressions.

The recruit drew his hands down from his face to reveal a similarly stunned expression. He looked like he'd been tending the kitchen fire a little too long. His prodigious eyebrows had scorched, but Jowan thought gratefully that his eyes were unharmed.

Much quieter, measured footsteps approached from the wall. As one, the four of them looked over to regard Ser Bran, who had removed his helm to rub his forehead. Jowan shuffled uncomfortably. Macsen started to stammer an apology for some reason. Silvana and Leolin both stood straight and regarded the man with almost identical, vaguely expectant, expressions.

“I think that's about enough of that for one evening,” murmured the templar. “Jowan, please never do that again. Macsen, I know you didn't start it. Silvana, thank you for trying. Leolin, while I appreciate your dedication to rooting out the forces of evil, please give the apprentices time to explain. If you're unsure what you're seeing, ask us. Do you need to see a healer?”

The recruit took stock of his body, and bit the inside of his cheek in thought. Jowan suspected he might be trying to figure out which angle to work. Ultimately, however, he shook his head. “I could do with some elfroot, perhaps. But Ser, all three of them turned magic upon me. Are you saying that's allowed?”

“Those were pulled punches. We don't encourage it, exactly. That said, we should discuss both elves and women in a while.” He turned wearily to the apprentices. “You three should get to bed. Don't you have an early morning, Macsen?”

“Yes, Ser. Worksh... um. Yes, I do. Thank you, Ser.” He shot a rueful glance at the recruit and grimaced as he accepted Jowan's hand up.

They grabbed up their belongings and bolted for the door. They made it past the dungeon entrance and one bewildered templar before they collapsed, panting and red-faced. Jowan felt relief bubbling up inside, like he was a bottle of ale someone had shaken. He began to gasp, and then to laugh. He laughed until he couldn't breathe, until his eyes watered, until the other two echoed him, until they all sagged against the wall.

A blue shimmer and a faint chime alerted Jowan to the fact that Silvana had recovered first. She ran her fingers over Macsen's ear. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked him.

“My pride and my butt. I'll handle those, thanks.” He quirked half a smile at her, but it broke before it could become a whole one. He shuddered. “Ooh, that was horrible. I thought he was going to hurt you.”

She tilted her head at him in confusion. “But he did hurt _you_.”

“Yeah, but still.” He turned to Jowan. “And thanks. You saved the day, there. That was brilliant.”

Jowan felt heat rise to his face. “That just came to me. I'm not even sure what that was, or if I could do it again.” He had just wanted the whole thing to stop before anyone got seriously hurt on either side.

“Give yourself a little credit, Jowan.” Silvana rested her hand on his shoulder. “That really worked.”

“Thank you. You're biased.” He looked away but smiled as he said it.

The templar guarding the door to the basement levels shook his head at them. “Yes, you are all excellent and best friends forever. There. I saved you some time. Now go to bed.”

Macsen snorted. “True on all counts. Goodnight.”

Jowan gestured for the others to lead the way. Macsen looked predictably annoyed and pleased at once. Silvana looked... like someone had given her the most beautiful feastday present.

They'd walked another ten steps before Jowan figured out what that meant. He pitched his voice to go no further than his friends. To Silvana specifically, he said “The three of us are family. You know that, don't you?”

“You've known each other since about birth. Well, Macsen's birth. I suppose I didn't expect to be in that category already. Thank you.”

Macsen bumped his shoulder against her, his arms full of gigantic book. “One, I was five... ish. Roughly. Two, so you were a little late. You're forgiven.”

Now she looked like she was going to cry. All the uncanny control she wielded over her face had just fallen aside. Jowan pondered how late hours and tiredness could bring about levels of honesty one never saw during the day. He wished the corridor had another mile to go, and knew they wouldn't talk about this in the morning.

They'd remember it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much trouble can one creepy book get Macsen into?
> 
> So, the bully has been taken down a peg or three. Where's his favorite punching bag? 
> 
> Next: What Leolin does to feel better about himself.


	7. Smallclothes Drill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leolin pulls a stunt that puts Alistair in the most humiliating situation he's faced so far.

Rian eyed his friends as they collected Alistair’s armor and clothes. Padraig passed Rian the pauldrons and helmet, then stacked the other plate carefully. Leolin used the tunic and leggings to muffle the clink of the chain. Cabhan even took the leather. With a snigger, they stacked it with the spare equipment to be repaired and polished. The edges of the helmet cut into Rian’s hands as he placed it on the chest plate.

 

###

 

The barracks awoke to Ser Bran’s shout: “Abomination on the first floor!”

 

“What?” Nightmare images flooded Cullen’s mind, fictional scenes now happening downstairs, on a floor full of kids.

 

A full templar in the next bunk barked once. “Our turn! Don’t worry, squirt, it’s a drill. Part of training.”

 

The recruit stared as the dark-haired templar dove into his uniform. “Yours or ours?”

 

“Both, squirt! Move it!”

 

Cullen wore only smalls at night in deference to the heat on this level. He threw on pants, boots, and a tunic and yanked leather in place: too slow. The full templars helped each other; the curly-haired boy scanned nearby for a partner.

 

A few beds closer to the barracks entrance, Alistair stood in his smalls, shouting at Leolin, “What do you mean, you ‘put it out to be mended?’” The closest armor stand was empty. It hadn’t been at lights out.

 

The larger boy's hands rose, palm out, his voice placating. “There was this layer of filth...”

 

Alistair’s eyes were slits, his mouth a slash, and his fists balled tight at his sides. “I can use yours.” He snatched the over-sized pauldron, levering his fellow recruit off balance.

 

Leolin shook him off. “Unlikely. You’re on your own.”

 

Cullen had never seen Alistair follow through on a physical solution. He released the beetle-browed bully –wait, was he missing those signature eyebrows?– and spun to a pair of templars helping each other into heavy plate. “Where do they repair armor?”

 

“Third floor. You’ll need your uniform, first.”

 

“Fastest route to the laundry room?”

 

The templar grinned. “It’s  _fastest_  if you cut across the Great Hall, but -” Alistair took off, and the grin dropped. “Wait, kid!”

 

Anyone not drilling was eating breakfast. If that fool believed the Great Hall to be empty, he would soon get a nasty shock. Cullen chased his roommate: “Alistair, wait!” The templars laughed after him and continued their drill.

 

Man, that kid can  _book._  Alistair ducked through the stairwell doorway at the end of the passage. Calling his name again, Cullen ran after him and opened the thick door. Sounds of eating and talking drifted up from the massive room a floor below. As he ran down the stairs, one two three four five, that dull roar ebbed. Silence reigned for the next seven steps. He glimpsed Alistair’s nearly-naked form holding the lower door open. He was hunched, caught, arms and legs out, ready to run or fight.

 

A single clap started in the back of the crowd. The clap spread as he continued: 15 more stairs and Cullen could see the mob on their feet, stomping and clapping. As the would-be rescuer finished the last four stairs, that shy, awkward idiot did the most amazing thing. Alistair swept his gaze over his audience and stood up straight, pushing the door wider. He snapped the smartest salute Cullen seen him perform, spun on his bare heel, and marched into the stairwell in full Parade Step. His audience loved it. They got even louder, and one gray-haired biddy of a mage stuck two fingers in her mouth to create a piercing wolf whistle. Unbelievable.

 

“Don't tell  _anyone_.” Alistair insisted as the self-closing door swung shut behind him, muffling the cheers.

 

###

 

Cullen smiled. “It hardly matters, everyone saw you.”

 

Everyone? Maker help him. Alistair threw a hand toward the Hall. “What the Fade is going on? I thought – abominations!”

 

“I tried to warn you. They run drills. Leolin must have known.”

 

The victim groaned and rolled his eyes. Something clenched in his gut. “They have drills? Why aren't they drilling?”

 

“I believe they take turns.” Cullen made it sound so reasonable. Shite. Alistair was the idiot. Again. Damn Leolin. The knot in his gut began to burn.

 

“Thanks for trying to save me from my stupidity. Got any ideas for my not-improved clothing status?” The scrawnier boy waved his hand at his bare knees.

 

“I can fetch clothes, then we’ll get you suited up. Be right back.”

 

The red-head offered a joke. “Sure, don’t mind me; I’ll hang out here. In my smallclothes.” He suppressed a shiver. They must not heat the closed stairwells.

 

“I’ll hurry.” Cullen slipped out, smiling, into the Great Hall.

 

Alistair had just decided to salute anyone who came through the stairwell when his roommate returned with a tunic, trews, even socks. Alistair tried to convey his gratitude as he covered himself. “Thanks. Thank you. I mean it.”

 

“Let’s get armor on you and plot revenge on Leolin.”

 

Alistair smiled a tight smile. “Sounds like a plan.” 

 


	8. Repairs at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair, Cullen, and Macsen begin plotting against the class bully, Leolin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens about 5 minutes after the previous chapter, Smallclothes Drill.

A plateful of crumbs and half a mug of strong tea sat on the table in a small workroom on the third floor. A toolchest stood in the corner, neatly organized and ready for use. Semi-functional armor and equipment filled most of the rest of the space. Glowlights shone coolly off the heaps of metal.

The tower began to awaken. A furious alarm awoke it faster. As the recruits had just arrived, it was almost certainly a drill for their benefit. Macsen knew better than to worry about the erupting chaos as Templars ran down the hall outside the workroom's open door, clanging like some daft fool had shaken down all the pots in the kitchen.

Even if it had been a real emergency, as a mage, Macsen would have been expected to stay where he was unless told otherwise. (If ever there were an actual emergency, he suspected his creepy-undead-magic would start to look pretty appealing, and he'd be told otherwise very fast.)

He shook his head and went back to his work. A few worn leather bits needed stitching or replacing altogether. One full set of armor had been sent down for no reason that he could see, unless the man who wore it was so self-important he couldn't take care of his own fingerprints. At least all the tasks ahead looked easy.

A scant few minutes saw the full set clean and shining. Macsen stared at it. _Just metal. It is just metal. Without a person, it is empty and harmless._ Whenever he worked on repairs, he took a few moments to focus on that. He inhaled a slow breath-

A flurry of running feet and ragged breath, not his, not his silent companion's.

Macsen's throat snagged and he fell to coughing.

“Whoa! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” The familiar-sounding voice belonged to a human boy with curly hair. He was half in and half out of a set of leathers, hurriedly thrown over his clothes. A smaller boy with him wore a tunic over trews, and was in his stocking feet. He had awful bedhead.

Macsen managed to get an uninterrupted breath, and stood straighter. The Chantry heraldry embroidered on their tunics helped things to fall into place. “Wait, I almost didn't recognize you. Cullen. You objected to my homework. If I wasn't often the one to maintain this crap,” he gestured at the pieces of armor. “I'd think they welded you into it. So, why are you both Templar-naked?”

The unfamiliar boy flushed beet-red, for some reason. The humans looked at each other, and looked back at him. “Leolin,” they said together.

“Mph,” Macsen made a face as he slid up to sit on the worktable. He winced from yesterday's bruises, but the position was worth it. It put him closer to their level, and hopefully made it clear he was supposed to be here. He casually took a sip of tea. “That idiot also objected to my homework. I'm seriously going to take up herbalism until you guys leave. He also objected to my ears, the clothing of a lady, the mingling of the classes, and mages in general, I suspect. Did he have a problem with your armor?”

The red-faced boy shifted even more uncomfortably. “He has a problem with everything that's mine.”

Cullen folded his arms. “I'm beginning to think Farris is right. He's just going to keep getting worse if we don't do something about him.”

The other boy shook his head. “But, if we do anything to him, he'll just pay us back for it, and it'll keep going back and forth and before you know it, everything's worse.”

“It's already worse. Doing nothing hasn't worked. Responding hasn't worked. It might be time to do something creative.”

Macsen set his tea back down on the table with more of a clatter than was strictly necessary. The Templar recruits both looked back at him. “Whatever you're going to do, could you do it elsewhere? If I'm not actually involved, I don't want to know. Unless you want to take a break from revenging to sharpen the kitchen knives?” He gestured to a whetstone and some oil.

“Sorry,” said Cullen. “We actually just came to get- ah. That.” He walked towards the full set of perfectly fine armor.

The other boy visibly relaxed, and Cullen started to help him into the gear right there. “So, Cullen continued, as they hurried through the task, “how come are you here, and by yourself?”

Macsen shrugged. “I'm not. Beatrice is here. Say hello, Bea.” The red-headed tranquil who had tucked herself into the corner, invisible in the clutter, put down her work and greeted the recruits in her disconcerting voice. They jumped. Macsen stifled a smirk. “Whenever I get too inventive with how I spend my time, First Enchanter Irving gives me other things to do. I don't actually mind.”

The new boy smiled wide at Macsen, clearly startled. “I know what you mean. How did you spend your time recently, then?”

“Envy got away from me. She found her way to a bathtub before I could catch her again. Unfortunately, Kelli was there first. I'm surprised you didn't hear the screams.”

“Envy? You lost control of a- a demon?!”

Baiting even unarmed Templar recruits was obviously a stupid move. Macsen just couldn't resist, after how things had been going. “Kelli thought so. But no, my pet toad. She's green. The name seemed like a good idea at the time. They made me give her up, and here I am, 'fixing' your perfectly fine armor.”

The recruits looked at each other, clearly thinking the same thing.

Cullen turned to Macsen. “I don't suppose we could persuade you to involve yourself, after all?”

This could not possibly be a good idea. But Leolin had been completely insufferable to everyone, even when he had nothing obvious to gain by it. Cullen may have had a point. Left unchecked, would this person become worse over time? If he found everyone at Kinloch ready to roll over for him, wouldn't he be more likely to request permanent assignment here? Nobody needed that.

He turned to the tranquil woman. “Beatrice, would you mind terribly much if we planned the comeuppance of the guy who was extra bossy to Owain, yesterday?”

She looked up and regarded them all with her unblinking stare. “I have no objection.”

“All right. What did you guys have in mind?”


	9. The Opposite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prank hints wrapped in a conversation about the Smallclothes Drill.

That evening, Cullen changed the subject.

 

The original topic was revenge. It wasn't exactly a conversation. Farris, Cullen, and Alistair were sitting at a round table in the high-ceilinged templar library. The thick wood was carved on the edges and, more rarely, on the surface with pictures, initials, and blocky writing. For lighting, they had glowlights plus the clerestory windows in daytime. Sunlight was fading now, before everyone had eaten dinner, but hours would get longer in a few days – after First Day.

 

Blue light flashed on the other side of the library. Four full templars had started practicing a few minutes ago. Between the light, the sounds, and the strange metallic smell no one would talk about, Farris read a few words over and over, comprehending little. He considered moving to a study room. Not that they were actually studying.

 

Cullen took notes on sheets of bark with dwindling charcoal stubs. He sketched out strategies and connections and scripted conversations. His eyebrows pinched, and his hands had been in the same cramped position for hours.

 

Alistair scanned a book made of stiff velum reports bound together: uses for salves, potions, and ointments. He turned the pages with a rustling “fwip" and took random amounts of time on each. He had written nothing on his bark.

 

Farris researched effects and powers of staves without a mage's touch. It was fascinating stuff: Only powerful staves bound to an element affect the real world on their own. These staves produce light, frost, or crackling sparks. Some staves have disconcerting auras, producing fear or unease in those nearby. Farris stared at the jotted words on his bark, but he wasn’t comprehending much. Could metal burn your nostrils? He looked at Cullen again, so focused.

 

Did he really understand the whole thing? This simple plan had become a complex web of favors. Their mage co-conspirators reassured them nothing got done in the Circle without trading favors. It was a testament to Leolin's universal rudeness that none questioned the rightness of their revenge. 

 

They all jumped at a whooshing boom across the library. Before Farris could suggest moving, Cullen spoke: “How did you do that, in the Hall?” Cullen stretched his blackened writing hand. Farris perked an ear, but stayed silent, pretending to read. The practicing templars fell into the background, where they belonged.

 

Alistair glanced back at a report on Swift Salve, noting his place. “Do what?”

 

“ _Everyone_ saw you. The Knight-Commander. The First Enchanter. Shadows, if the Tranquil have a leader, they saw you, too. The Great Hall was full.” Cullen’s tone was bitter? Jealous? Of a kid tricked into one of the most embarrassing situations Farris had seen?

 

Alistair groaned, “Don’t remind me! I could barely walk through there, even fully clothed.”

 

Cullen smiled, “Well, you walked in ‘barely.’”

 

Alistair threw a piece of charcoal at his head. “Isn’t it my job to make the jokes?” Maybe, but he got you to relax for a second. Farris wished Drystan and Sieffre weren’t guarding mages right now. They’d have enjoyed this exchange.

 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. But... how did you – recover so well?” Cullen tilted his head. “You might have garnered more respect than if you –”

 

“Hadn’t been such an idiot?” Alistair, prone to self-flagellation much? Take the damn compliment!

 

“Were told the ‘emergency’ was a drill?”

 

Alistair stared through the text in front of him. “I don’t know how I do it.”

 

“What? How?” Curiosity and, yes, envy peeking out. Amazing.

 

Alistair shook his head, more bewildered than Cullen. “I just – do it.” He looked up. “Some people get stage fright, right?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, I’m the opposite. When everyone’s looking at me, I get relaxed. I think clearly. What to say and do – flows. Like falling off horses or meditating. Easy.” Alistair considered templar meditations easy?

 

“Huh.” Cullen paused, turned back to their plans. “Hey, Farris, this staff…” The templars started a flashy series of abilities.

 

Farris requested they move to another room.

 


	10. Citrus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another glimpse of our heroes plotting their revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got to write Macsen! *squeeeeeeee!*

Macsen flinched when two suits of templar armor walked into Beatrice’s workshop. He tamped down the panic, which was easier when he saw whose heads were sticking out of the metal suits. He smiled to cover his mistake. “Hey, you’re not templar-naked this time. Alas.”

 

Cullen smiled. “Good to see you, too.” He stuck out his hand.

 

Mystified, Macsen set down the scraps of metal he was carrying and shook it. The sound of metal hitting stone echoed in the room.

 

Alistair grinned, too, and they shook hands. His ears were a bit pink. Macsen suppressed the urge to say the word ‘naked’ again to get Alistair’s reaction. He was a little upset he’d missed the Smallclothes Drill.

 

“Sorry so much of this is on you. What have you found?” Alistair asked.

 

“Your friend Farris said you need a powerful staff for a specific element. Well, the most powerful one in the Circle belongs to Sweeney. This is great news for us because Enchanter Sweeney is more of a prankster than me. I checked with him, and his price for the loan has two parts. He wants the underwear of a certain templar to be found on the head of a statue in the Chantry,” here the other two boys startled, “and he wants a detailed account of your prank afterwards.”

 

Cullen and Alistair looked at each other, then back to Macsen. “All the statues in there are of Andraste,” Alistair objected.

 

Macsen snorted. “All the statues in this place are of Andraste, which is weird for a building built by ancient Tevinter, don’t you think?”

 

His companions were no less rattled. Macsen reminded himself that rattled templars, even recruits, were never fun. He tried to shift their focus. “Look, that’s his price. He was adamant that it be a statue, and Andraste’s all we’ve got.” He hadn’t been, but Macsen was weary of the Maker and his Bride. “Do you want the staff or don’t you? We could check with someone else, but who knows what they would ask for.”

 

“How would we even get them up there?” Cullen objected hopefully.

 

“I can do that, but I would need to get away for a little while.”

 

“You can get underwear on the head of those statues? They’re huge!” Alistair leaned forward and waved his hands wildly in the air, bumping into Cullen’s oversized pauldron.

 

As Cullen shot Alistair a dirty look, Macsen snickered. “I climb things. Nervous energy. You know those paper ‘30’s’ for that celebration? I got them up there.”

 

Cullen laughed as Alistair looked crushed. “See, Alistair, they weren’t hung by magic!”

 

Alistair glanced around the workshop and Macsen suddenly saw it as an outside might: the workbenches, the blade-quenching baths, the two forges, and a mess of hammers, forms, and stranger tools. Piles of unfinished projects and neat rows of completed ones for pick-up. One forge – the one Macsen never got close to – glowed in spatters of blue.

 

Alistair commented on none of it. “You’re right as usual. Can we move on?” Maybe he wasn’t really seeing it.

 

“Wait, when would you be able to do this? There are always templars watching you. Well, except now.”

 

Macsen quirked an eyebrow at their armor, but refrained from comment.

 

“I have this duty again tonight. Beatrice, will you let me slip away?”

 

“Yes, but you must get caught for something,” Beatrice responded promptly, “but not this.”

 

Macsen paused. “I must… get caught?”

 

“If you’re caught when you are not under my care, then you will be sent here.”

 

“No, problem, you’re in trouble all the time, right?” Alistair chortled.

 

“It’s a bit of a problem, actually,” Macsen snapped. Then he took a breath. These recruits aren’t bad, and friends among the templars  _would_ be useful. “If I do this, there are other things I won’t be able to do. Helping arrange this prank is one thing, but if I have to get in trouble, I’ll ask for something in exchange.”

 

“Like what?” suspicion radiated from Alistair. What did he think? Probably blood sacrifices, demon books, blah blah. Whatever. 

 

Macsen considered. Well, his top pick is worth a shot. “Can either of you access fruit?” he asked brightly.

 

Alistair gaped, and Cullen said, “Fruit?” like a prat.

 

“Especially citrus. Like half a dozen, if they’re fist-sized. We don’t get enough fruit here.” Macsen suppressed memories of the bland fish-turnip stew they’d had the previous night.

 

Alistair laughed. “Yeah, I think we can swing a half-dozen citrus. Not right away, though, my contacts are at Bournshire. Is that okay?”

 

Cullen was still dumbfounded. “You have contacts? For fruit?”

 

Alistair shrugged. “Yeah, remember the cheese? This will be no problem.”

 

Macsen considered. These guys would leave at the end of the week, so they would have less motivation to keep their word than most. “It’s a gamble, but citrus is worth it. Just remember: if you don’t keep your word, I’ll get revenge on your next visit.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve no desire to start a mage-templar war,” Alistair joked.

 

A mage with copper hair popped through the doorway. “Hey, Beatrice, Irving wants to know if the commission is done yet? They’re visiting in a few days.” Where the Fade did he come from?

 

Beatrice responded smoothly, covering Macsen’s startlement. “I will complete it in plenty of time, Anders.”

 

“Thanks, I’ll tell him.” Anders glanced around. “What you all doing? You look like you’re planning a rebellion or something here.”

 

Alistair clutched his plated chest after the mage left. “I thought my heart had stopped!”

 

Macsen laughed, egging him on, but before Alistair could expand his dramatics, Cullen interrupted. “All right. What about getting the smalls? There’s always someone in the barracks, so we have little opportunity.”

 

Alistair's eyes sparkled. “Eyes on the prize, Cullen. If this works, it might be worth the trouble.”

 

“Do you _really_ want to be caught stealing another templars _underwear_?”

 

“We just won’t get caught,” Alistair grumbled, but he didn’t look hopeful.

 

Macsen had a less-challenging solution: “Beatrice has a lead on that. Bea, what did your friend say?”

 

“They will acquire the templar's smalls from the laundry room, but they insist on a challenging puzzle in exchange.”

 

“Huh.” Macsen was stumped at last. If mages at Kinloch had such things, they hid them from each other.

 

“I saw a dwarven puzzle box the other day, Ser Annalise had one. Would that work?” Cullen surprised Macsen by addressing Beatrice directly.

 

“That should be sufficient.”

 

“Finally, something we can do.”  Macsen had to agree with Alistair.

 

“If she’ll trade for it.” Cullen was a pessimist.

 

“Doesn’t hurt to ask. Maybe more citrus?” And Alistair an optimist, apparently.

 

“Okay, it looks like we might get the staff. We need to know how and when we can pick it up.” Cullen collects Macsen’s nod before he adds, “Unfortunately, it’s useless without the balm.”

 

“Right, I’ve got a lead on that, too. This one apprentice, Karl, is brilliant with alchemy.” Macsen leaned in to outline the next series of trades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do my characters touch armor so much? And why is it always the pauldrons? *sighs*


	11. Vouch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimpse of Enchanter Sini and Ser Clancy as they bump into this prank.

Sini dithered in the main library, glancing at the nearest templar. Just the thought of real citrus fruit was enough to tempt her to be careless, but she’d been trained _never_ to be careless.

 

Macsen reassured her about this – prank, let’s be honest. However, “Well, not harmless, exactly, but not bad, either,” wasn’t very reassuring.

 

How much trouble could a few balm ingredients cause? Considering the portfolio of Macsen’s stunts, Sini was pretty sure he could judge the level of a prank. She was less sure these templar recruits would be as good as their word. She needed someone who knew them, like the templar in front of her. The possibility of fresh fruit in the near future was worth this risk.

 

“Ser Clancy, I have a question for you.”

 

Ser Clancy turned, smiling. “I was wondering why you were staring at me. One might think you had a crush, Enchanter Sini.”

 

Sini blushed and her bold gaze skittered away. “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“Of course. I was only teasing, I apologize. What’s your question?”

 

Sini took a breath and pulled herself up again. “You seem to be familiar with Alistair and Cullen. An apprentice I’ve spoken to has dealings with them, and I’m wondering whether they’re the type to keep their word.”

 

“Oh? What kind of dealings?”

 

“No details were provided, and even if they were, it really isn’t my place to say. I believe they’re working together on a prank. Feel free to question them, if necessary.”

 

Ser Clancy chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. I’m glad to know Alistair is going to get back at that twerp, if their intended victim is who I _think_ it is.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know the Smallclothes Drill?”

 

Sini laughed. “That was Alistair? That was brilliant!”

 

“Well, he didn’t do it on purpose. Word upstairs is that he was tricked into it by another recruit, who’s very good at claiming innocence. Seems to have been bothering him for a while, name of Leolin.”

 

“Huh. Again, names were not named, but I can check.”

 

“Alright, let’s see. Can you trust those two? Cullen is strikingly literal in everything he says and does. He will keep his word, or kill himself trying. Alistair is a good kid, too, in his own way, but I wouldn’t trust him with a tack and access to my chair.”

 

Sini smiled. “Alright. Good enough for me.”

 

“Wait, was that because Cullen will keep his word, or Alistair would put a tack on my chair?”

 

“You’ll never know!” Sini laughed and glided away.

 

Ser Clancy chuckled and watched her go for longer than strictly necessary.

 


	12. Alone Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A negotiation with Karl.   
> No, not that kind of negotiation. Sheesh.

“I do envy your freedom of movement.”

Sieffre didn’t look nearly as surprised at the apprentice’s comment as Drystan felt. “Freedom of movement?” Drystan looked around the store room, where supplies hemmed them in equally.

“You really don’t understand what it took for me to get here, do you?” Karl’s words dripped with contempt. “And I’ll be missed in a minute, so we have to make this fast.”

Sieffre launched into his questions. “We’re told we need to arrange a distraction for you and your friend. What’s the route? Where do you want to end up? And when?”

“I think the roof would be best. We can get to the Great Hall without being noticed, and the Harrowing Chamber is empty except when it’s not, so the major challenge is the templar floor.”

Drystan rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got an idea for that. You see, the dragonlings prefer live food…”

“I don’t need the details. Just, can you do it?”

“Yes.”

Sieffre nodded to Karl. “Bring your friend to the top of the stairs after dinner this evening. We’ll open the door when it’s clear.”

“And scout the route to the Harrowing chamber.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll have your balm tomorrow.”

###

“Okay, this is going to be fun,” Drystan allowed. “I love rabbits. But doesn’t that guy strike you as … I dunno, being up to no good?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, going to the roof with a ‘friend’? I mean, blood sacrifice? Conspiracy?”

Sieffre laughed. “Of course not! That wouldn’t be very romantic!”

Drystan was taken aback. _The friend is a girl?_ “Romantic?” He was almost certain it was a boy.

“You numb-skull. These mages are watched _all the time_. Of _course_ those boys are going to want some actual time alone. It’s downright creepy that this is what it takes!”

Drystan stumbled through his epiphany. “Well, but, what if – they – plot … or something, after they…” _make out? Two boys can make out?_ Drystan felt stupid. _Of course they could. But that’s just not done, is it?_

Sieffre shrugged. “Templars are well-trained. We’ll deal with that _if_ it happens. Which I really doubt. This is their business, and I say let them have it!”

They entered the barracks then, ending the conversation but leaving Drystan with a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it’s worth, Drystan is based on my own experience of learning that two girls could make out. Trust me, poor Drystan is reeling right now.   
> Sorry this has taken so long to update. Other projects and real life keep getting in the way, but we will keep posting. A little Karl/Anders treat for you next!


	13. Improper Use of Rooftops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Karl escape the Circle, temporarily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosehip is the primary writer on this chapter.  
> Note the rating change.

Anders and Karl pretended to be heading somewhere useful in the third floor hallway. They'd been conscripted a couple of times to clear empty dishes from the great hall, which gave them some plausible deniability.

“Karl, what are we _doing_?”

“It's a surprise. Trust me.”

“I do but... I'm very confused. Why are we heading up from here, with all the blankets I saw you stash under that table?”

“More than that. I came very prepared.”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “...Good? Because I certainly didn't.”

“I've got it covered. I haven't let you down yet, have I?” Karl surreptitiously stroked the small of his lover's back between their bodies and the wall as they ducked out of the way of a few passing staff.

Anders leaned his shoulder against Karl's. “No, but I could be more useful if I knew...”

Shouting erupted from the stairwell.

Karl smirked. “It's starting. Put up your hood. Be ready to run when I say.”

Suddenly, rabbits.

Not just rabbits. Rabbits, hares, and the occasional idiotic-looking furball making a sort of reepreepreep noise hopped and tumbled through the corridor and into every open doorway, between feet, under furniture, and off like a shot into the distance.

Templars flew down the stairs, through the corridor and into various rooms, chasing the runaway creatures and causing even more chaos. One man slipped on a pellet and fell in a heap of clattering metal, swearing. His nearest companion pointed and laughed.

Anders grinned in delight. “What in the world-?”

A rare smile flashed across Karl's face and he winked. “Let's go help catch a few, then.”

But they didn't. Karl took his arm and they ran up the stairs, right past a templar recruit who- winked. at. them.

The laughter and crashing fell behind them. Most of the animals had run downstairs, past the stairwell doors that weren't shutting properly.

One sleepy old man rabbit dozed near the font in the harrowing chamber. “I see our ticket back,” said Karl with a half smile. “People can surprise you.”

To Anders' surprise, they headed up, even from here, all the way to the roof.

Radiant warmth emanated from the rooftiles. The moon shone through thickening clouds, which radiated a strange light themselves, especially towards the south. Silence blanketed the world. None of the kerfluffle below reached them, here. Anders' face hurt. How long had it been since he grinned like a fool?

“Do you like your surprise?” Karl asked, as he lit a tall jar candle. It flickered merrily in the gray night.

“I'm amazed. How did you manage this?”

“A temporary pause in hostilities. I traded a small bit of labor for a distraction. I gather this won't resolve soon, but we should come back in a few hours to be safe. Happy First Day, a little early.”

“Heh. I'm sorry. I didn't get you a gift. Couldn't make it to the shops.”

Karl circled a blanket around the two of them, drawing close enough that the wisps of their breath mingled. “Give me a kiss, then.”

Anders leaned forward to press his lips to Karl's. The beginnings of a beard tickled. Wine from dinner mingled with Karl's own flavor; a rare treat. Anders' breath came out in a small whimper. He craved more. Arms entwined beneath the blanket.

Karl tugged at Anders' belt. He arched into the touch but said “Oh, Maker we're going to freeze!”

“We won't,” grinned Karl. “I've been hoarding chips of fire crystal.”

_Why are you arguing? Rip the man's clothes off,_ Anders scolded himself. And then he did just that. They shed all their clothing in a flurry. The cold attacked them through the blanket around their shoulders, but Karl pulled a jar of flame colored salve out of his discarded robes. He dipped his fingers in the faintly shining orange, and slid the stuff all over first Anders' body, and then his own. It warmed their skin. They radiated that heat for eachother.

Within a nest of blankets, cocooning them in warmth, they explored their bodies with a leisurely pace they could never indulge before. Karl ran his hands through Anders' hair. He tangled his fingers in it, and messed it up in the way he had always said he wanted to. Anders leaned against his hands like a cat.

Anders kissed along Karl's shoulder and discovered the balm also _tasted_ like fire. Somehow that was even better. He laughed at his own folly- of course it did.

Anders admired the sight of Karl, and the smell of his soft skin. For this many kisses, touches, feelings; a little cold was no price at all.

Still, a few habits had worn deep pathways in Anders. He could not, for all that the wind stole sounds, allow his voice the freedom it wanted. A soft groan felt like the most daring of indulgences.

They didn't have true freedom, but for once, they had time.

###

Karl's heartbeat pressed against Anders' cheek where it lay upon his chest. “Tonight is the most beautiful thing in my life,” Anders murmured. “I'll remember it always.” He could feel a room forming in his mind, where it would live. Some moments were like that. Some good, some bad, but forever unchanged.

Karl stroked Anders' loose hair. “Whatever happens, we'll always have had this. I wish I could speak openly more often, but... I've got a thought. When I tap my finger twice against a book or table, as if in thought, I'm really thinking of you. One tap for each of us. It'll be a reminder of everything we'd say if we could.”

Anders felt a small pain behind his face, a good hurt he rarely felt. He closed his eyes out of habit, to hide what they'd reveal. When it felt safe to speak, he said “I- I'll need one too. Not the same symbol. I'll cross and uncross my fingers. A tiny embrace.”

“I like it. Thank you for trusting me, Anders. I'd hate to have missed this.”

“Me, too.”

They lay in silence for a small while. The warmth balm, the blankets, and their own heat kept them cozy. Anders twisted his fingers in the soft fur on Karl's chest. He chuckled.

“What?”

“I like your fuzz. Give it a few years and you'll have quite a pelt.”

Karl's hand went still.

_Damn,_ Anders thought. “I'm sorry I know... oh, blast.”

Karl's hand started stroking again. “Oh, shh. Don't be sorry. I'll take it. We'll both be Harrowed soon. I'll take thoughts of the future as luck that we'll both have one. We're talented. We'll be all right.”

“You're better than I am,” Anders couldn't stop himself from saying.

"Hey, no. You're good enough. I do try harder than you do, but you're better than many, even so. I know you hate it here. Who doesn't?”

“Silvana.”

“Yes, well, she's out of her mind. I've a point, Anders. I promise. Of course you hate the place, but it's all right to love magic. We suffer for it, but it's ours, nonetheless. Creation comes easy to you, but the rest belongs to you as well.”

“You sound like Enchanter Sini.”

“She believes in you, too. Maybe not for the same reasons.” Karl tipped Anders up to face him, and kissed him deeply.

A tiny cold fleck hit Anders on his exposed shoulder. He ignored it, until several more followed. He withdrew from the kiss to brush the annoyances away, but they were gone. Then he saw them, tiny, pale flecks swirling through the air, melting when they hit anything warm.

“Oh, Maker,” he whispered. “It's- is that snow?!”

“Wow. It is.” Karl's voice sounded almost reverent. “I can't believe our luck.”

“I haven't seen snow since... well, it's been years.”

Karl laughed. “Me either. Well, as much as I hate to suggest it, I think we might want to put our clothes back on.”

Anders grumbled as he stood, but the snow stuck to cold things and melted on warm things. It was now or never if they didn't want to dress in either wet or ice-crusted robes.

They had a little more time, to lean against eachother and to watch the world turn blue-white. They didn't speak much more. They had grown used to the quiet they usually had to endure.

Eventually, reluctantly, they returned. They scooped up the dozy old man rabbit, and ventured down the stairs to find the earlier chaos resolving itself. Someone had set up some barrricades and herded the animals into one of the classrooms. Karl handed off the rabbit to one of the grinning templar recruits... who thanked him.

Only then could Anders breathe normally.

They returned at last to the dormitory to find everyone staring wistfully at the clerestory at the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my own forever-memories: NYC. Dinner at an entirely candle-lit cafe with a cute lady. When we emerged, it had grown much colder. It began to snow gently, and everyone fled inside but us. We had the snow and the city to ourselves, and nowhere else to be til later. Froze our tails off and everything was beautiful. That influenced this. -Rosehip


	14. Andraste Pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macsen fulfills an earlier promise and is very emo about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosehip wrote this chapter. More rabbits!

Tranquil made great alibi witnesses. People assumed all kinds of stuff about them. Most thought they couldn't lie. It never, as far as Macsen could tell, occurred to them on their own, but they _could_.

Macsen still had to travel undetected from one floor to another, though. The timing had to be perfect. It should be most of the way through dinner so people would be wandering about; but not long enough after it that the priest would turn up for the optional evening service. Full halls, likely empty chapel...

Probably... _now_.

Macsen gave the small puzzle box to Beatrice. She pulled a bundled pair of smalls from a pocket and handed it over. He nodded, and shoved the (frankly enormous) garment into his own pocket as he slipped out the door.

Luck walked with him. Macsen joined a cluster of young apprentices as they headed from the Great Hall. The usually-attentive Ser Clancy, on duty in the hall, must have eaten too much bread at dinner and grown sleepy. The man took a few long blinks and paid nobody any mind.

Macsen concentrated on looking like he had every right to be headed this direction. He'd been studying Silvana's charade of calm. He didn't have it down, but it couldn't hurt to try. He stayed with the apprentices until they passed the chapel and he ducked off into a doorway. The second floor had absolutely wonderful lines of sight where sneaking was concerned. The people in the room wouldn't even see him.

The giggling of the younger kids receded. Macsen dashed into the chapel. Nobody was there, not even Kelli. Macsen had thought for sure he would have to bribe her, at least.

He wrapped his robes up into his belt and clambered up the back side of the prominent statue. Risky. Nobody would believe he wanted to catch the service even if he weren't clinging to “Andraste's” head.

Macsen shaped Ser Beval's smallclothes into a sort of jaunty little hat. The embroidery of his name showed at the front. A little bit of library paste ensured a random draft wouldn't undo his work and helped the intended shape hold.

His heart thumped in his chest from exertion and excitement both as Macsen worked his way around to the statue's front. He took a final look. Truthfully, this stunt exceeded anything in his past. Nobody knew who the statue actually depicted, but most accepted the fiction of it being Andraste. People would actually be angry about this; maybe take it as an overt sign that he scorned the Chantry and its rules. Everyone would know the act for his, even if they couldn't prove it.

The proceedings took no more than two minutes. He slid easily down the statue's stone robe with the faintest of squeaks of skin against stone. It wobbled slightly on the dismount. Damn! Well, there was one statue off-limits in future.

It stared down at Macsen, as stern and disapproving as ever. This one in particular had always made him uneasy. Its ancient stone glare felt like a reminder that the Chantry had no room for Macsen or either of his kinds, but wouldn't leave anyone alone, either.

Malevolent. That's what the statue was. Carved malevolence. And Macsen was making fun of it. He shivered and turned away, straightening his clothes to make a quick exit...

Only to come face to face with the last thing he ever expected to find. A young hare hopped into the Chapel. Macsen froze. He didn't want to startle it. The animal sniffed at the hem of his robes and nibbled a loose thread from the embroidery.

They kept small animals upstairs as food for the fu... freaking _dragons_ the templars also kept up there for some godforsaken reason. He knew where it had come from and how- the recruits must have managed their distraction for Karl.

But still. A forest hare, of all the creatures that could have wandered in here, at this moment? It showed no fear at all, so he picked it up. The hare settled into his arms without a fuss.

Macsen stroked it, lost in thought for a few precious moments. He had arguably desecrated a temple to the Maker, god of humans. And an animal sacred to Andruil had walked right up to him, completely contrary to its shy nature. A cynical part of his brain wanted to argue that of course it did, it had probably been raised in captivity and was used to people. And yet; it had been raised in very violent and scary captivity. This hare should side-eye every two-legged creature it ever met.

He could hardly breathe. His people had let him go, but was it possible the gods hadn't? Did they approve of his small acts of resistance? Had they taken this chance to let him know?

Macsen chose to believe it. And he would _not_ let anyone else catch this hare. He wrapped his arms closely around it, tucked his head down, and _moved_.

Envy's habitat remained intact under his and Jowan's bunk. The young hare would grow and wouldn't be happy there long, but if he could send her with Cullen when the recruits left, then on the mainland, she'd have a chance at a normal life.

Only things are never that easy. As Macsen dashed down the hall in the wrong direction, he spotted Irving talking to Mother Cait. They headed in his direction. They'd see him soon if they hadn't, already.

What to do? He ducked into the library as they passed by, but it was not unoccupied.

Sweeney and Torrin both looked up from some papers.

“Um. Excuse me, are there any more of these in here? They seem to have got out,” Macsen improvised.

Torrin gave a small smirk as Sweeney bellylaughed.

“A few passed by,” Sweeney said between laughs. “But, there are others dealing with it. Off with you, you scamp!” He turned back to Torrin. “I do swear, this is the best week...”

Macsen couldn't be seen by many more people and hope to go without attracting attention. Darn it! He had to get back to the workshop and hope to smuggle the hare back to his hiding spot later.

This didn't pose a problem, as it turned out. He raced back upstairs and found he was far from the only out of breath person carrying (or trying to carry) a small mammal. Platemail didn't lend itself to climbing around under furniture but that didn't stop anyone from trying. The rabbits remained unimpressed.

Nobody noticed him ducking into the workshop instead of heading upstairs. Someone had shut all the doors, so that was perfect. No rabbits or Templars waited inside. Masen giggled.

Beatrice looked up from the intricate carving she worked on in the slightly glowy end of the room.“You have a hare.”

“Yes I do! They're everywhere and it's great!”

“What will you do with it?”

“Get her out of here, somehow.”

“As practice?”

Macsen looked at her sharply. “Not... yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to name this chapter something sensible, but I was overruled. -Rosehip  
> Bwahahahahaha!!! -Starla


	15. Clancy's Bad Templaring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We think it's actually good templaring, but that view is outdated in Thedas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosehip wrote this chapter.

Clancy admittedly slouched a little against the wall. A few enchanters wandered about. A tutoring session on some dead language drifted out of an office. Nothing unusual had happened for a while. Earlier, however, Macsen Surana sneaked out of the workroom while stuffing a rather large, grown man's smallclothes into his pocket. Up to no good, clearly; but not up to evil. Clancy pretended not to notice. He burned with curiosity, and decided to let whatever it was play out.

Two things about that: Beatrice had let him go _against orders_ and Enchanter Sini had said Cullen's and Alistair's prank involved an apprentice. Bran had been lecturing Leolin about not treating elven mages like serfs. Odds were, then.

Clancy wanted to see the plot unfold, both for the schadenfreude and the fact that it had every faction (including tranquil?!) cooperating, for once.

He didn't know when Macsen had come back, but he had. Probably during the peak of the fuss. It had been hard to notice much for a couple of hours. _Heh. Rabbits._ Macsen had gone the opposite way so it wasn't he who let them out. Related, though. Clancy chuckled. Everything sounded normal in the workroom, except that... was Macsen _humming_? Now that was just _weird_.

When at last his relief arrived, Clancy headed into the workroom himself, pretending the sole of his boot had come slightly loose. It wouldn't be expected.

Almost everything appeared as it should. Beatrice tended to the enchanted gear while Macsen sat cross-legged on the worktable, stitching something leather. He grinned like the child he was, for once.

Until Clancy's shadow fell on him and his face went blank and his body went still. Clancy really hated that.

Macsen's hands dropped into his lap, his rolled sleeves flopping over something. Something grayish and furry, that moved. A young rabbit poked its head out over Macsen's hands and regarded Clancy with one bright eye.

Clancy smiled and raised one eyebrow. “Moving up from toads?”

The air went out of Macsen and his shoulders slumped. He stroked the bunny, avoiding Clancy's eyes. “Not really. See these black marks in her fur? She's a forest hare. She'll get huge, and she'll need to run. I can't keep her hidden for long but I was hoping I could find a way to sneak her to the mainland. Maybe send her with the new guys when they go.”

“Why? She's from upstairs. I could just take her back for you.”

“Nooo! She came right up to me and she's so nice and they'll just feed her to the dragons and I couldn't stand that, not after...” He clutched the animal to his chest. It whuffled its nose against his chin.

_Not after what? At the very least, not after it had stayed with him, tame as you please, for several hours. Dammit._ “She might get eaten outside anyway, you know. The world's a dangerous place.” He tried to keep his voice gentle.

“I remember that much.” _There_ was the trademark Surana glare. “But isn't it better to have a chance, instead of living in a cage, waiting for someone to kill you? I like her and wanted to give her that.” He sounded so sad.

There was absolutely more to it, Clancy was sure. Who knew what the child was thinking? He did know that if he took that rabbit... hare... creature; back up to its cage, he'd undo some of whatever goodwill had built between this apprentice and the templar recruits this week.

“Are you done for the evening?” Clancy asked.

“Done as I'm going to get.”

“I imagine you haven't been very productive.” Not that it was even the point. They didn't actually need his labor, but Irving wanted the apprentice to learn patience and Gregoir wanted him to learn obedience and burn off some fidgets.

“No, about what you'd think.”

“You know, I'm off now. Think I might head over to the Spoiled Princess to order some extra wine and mulling spices for First Day. I might have other business in the area. Walk in the woods, maybe.”

“This time of evening?”

“When better?” He held out his hands.

Macsen caught on and handed over the hare, a shadow of his earlier grin returning. “Have a good time, Ser.”

Clancy looked around, and found a leather pouch with a broken buckle. He hid the rabbit inside. When he looked up, he caught sight of Beatrice. She regarded him, her body and face as still as ever.

“Excuse my rudeness,” Clancy said to her. “I should have greeted you. Have you had a good evening? Anything unusual that needs my attention?”

“All is as it should be.”

“All right then. Good evening to you both.” Clancy left. He had a ferryman to annoy, a hare to free, wine to purchase, and something to think about.


	16. The Lamppost in Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late morning two days after the ‘Smallclothes Drill,’ five templar recruits stood huddled in an alcove behind a statue, admiring the fruit of their labors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starla-Nell wrote this chapter.

 

Late morning two days after the ‘Smallclothes Drill,’ five templar recruits stood huddled in an alcove behind a statue, admiring the fruit of their labors.

Better to call it labor than conniving and conspiracy.

Alistair imagined what they might look like if someone happened to peek in at them. They were all wearing templar leathers, but not the full plate. They surrounded their prize. The staff was a length of volcanic metal, with a wicked spike on one end and three crescent moons on the top. The middle crescent was the largest, curving like blades or horns. The Fade-blasted thing was so cold that the five recruits had to keep passing it between them to avoid frostbite.

“It’s perfect,” Farris breathed.

Drystan looked right at Alistair. After days of almost no one looking directly at him, it was arresting.

“You have to dare him,” Drystan said, reaching over the staff to poke a finger at his chest for good measure.

“What?” he said brilliantly.

“If nothing else works, you have to dare him. Like you did to me with the cheese. That was really effective, but only because I hated you at the time.”

 _The cheese? Oh,_ the _cheese. More properly, the Rochebaron. Wait!_

“You… hated me? I had no idea.” Alistair was distraught by the idea. _Someone could hate me, and I would never know. Does everyone hate me?_

Drystan grinned. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

###

Leolin didn’t think he’d ever been so bored in his life. Watching mage apprentices read and write and look things up all day? There had to be something better he could be doing. He loosened the straps of his borrowed armor and pushed into the templar barracks.

Cullen and his acolytes were huddled on one of the bunks to the right. Leolin wasn’t sure whose it was; they’d had to scatter when he’d stopped them from massing together at the beginning of the week. Like rats. No, cockroaches. Now the four of them – plus that bastard runt Alistair – had congregated around the bed. When they saw him, they shushed each other and tried to close ranks.

 _Forbidden goods, is it?_ Leolin’s interest peaked. Whatever it was, he could try claiming it. With other templars in the room, even five of them could do nothing that wouldn’t at least get them in trouble. He left his armor on and marched over. “What do we have here?” he asked in a voice pitched to carry to the bunk, but no further. If he wanted the goods, no point in others being alerted.

The boys parted, but it wasn’t food or dirty mags. Disappointing, but at least he wouldn’t have to figure out how to hide it. “It’s a staff, Leolin,” Alistair rolled his eyes. The runt never did know his place, but now the templars that protected him also protected Alistair.

Leolin bore the insult with grace. “I know that, numb nuts. I’m wondering what you cretins are doing with it.” Maybe they’d be willing to bargain for his silence. 

“Cullen confiscated it from a mage.” _Well, shit._ “Wanna try?” Alistair nudged the staff.

“What?” Leolin’s guard was up. Templars can’t use mage staves. 

“It’s called Lamppost in Winter. It makes your tongue tingle. It kind of tastes good, too,” the quiet one, Drystan was it, flashed a bit of his tongue, teeth blazing white.

Sieffre now: “We’ve been keeping track of the parts that we lick, so that we don’t overlap or anything. You should try it. It’s definitely an experience.” The templar in the next bunk stared at a book, but his eyes flicked toward this bunk. None of the recruits had mastered the trick of watching without watching, yet, but Leolin could at least spot it.

“Why would I do that?” The air around the staff frosted in clouds. A white crust was growing on the blankets in the hot room. Leolin remembered frost spreading under his armor a few days ago and shivered.

Drystan responded, “For the experience. It’s okay if you’re afraid to try it. It’s really not that bad, though.”

“I am _not_ afraid to try it.” Leolin got angrier as all five of them smiled knowing smiles. “I’m just not _stupid_. I’m not going to put something in my mouth because you lot tell me it’s neat.” He’d had frost on his armor… and he was fine. Maybe this thing was like that.

“What? Why not?” Cullen chimed in now.

 _I’m not an idiot._ “It could be a trap.” _But then again, maybe it was harmless._ Either way, no point in doing it.  

“Oh, Leolin,” Cullen chided, “I thought we knew each other better by now. Sure, you used to use Alistair for-for informal hand-to-hand training, but that’s water under the bridge.”

Alistair added, “We would never do anything _harmful_.”

“Look, it’s fine,” Farris lifted and licked the staff. He smacked his lips: “Kind of like ice cream.” Then he passed it.

“I dunno,” Cullen licked it, “more like sherbet? What I imagine sherbet would taste like.” Leolin harrumphed. He’d had sherbet, and he doubted metal could taste like that. _Could it?_  

Alistair laved his tongue over it, a bit grossly. “My favorite was always just flavored ice, but it’s nothing like that,” Alistair claimed, passing it to Sieffre. It was like watching a bunch of friends share an ice cream.

“What do you think?” Sieffre asked, and they turned to him, offering the staff. “This is a part we haven’t tried before.” Sieffre pointed the section out.

“You brave enough to take a taste?” Drystan drawled. Blasted country boy. What were they good for? He was from noble birth, he was _nothing_ like him: he could do anything they could do.

Yet Leolin hesitated, the wicked metal suspended before him. He really could not trust this crew. When he glanced up, Alistair caught his eye. “I dare you,” he muttered. Drystan sniggered.

What could go wrong? He’d show these brats that he wasn’t afraid of a simple magical artifact. He took it from them, feeling the cold begin to saturate his fingers already, lifted it, and touched his tongue to the frosting metal.

“Wait!” they all shouted as his tongue froze, adhering to the staff. Startled, he almost dropped it. “Leolin, no, you have to use this first!” Too late, Sieffre revealed a container of Greater Ice Balm and tossed it to him on the bed.

They had tricked him! They knew perfectly well what would happen. The templar the next bed over was laughing and drawing attention. Leolin’s anger felt hot enough to melt the entire staff so he could bludgeon them with the smoldering pieces.

No such luck.

Farris didn’t bother concealing his glee. “Maker! That’s gotta hurt!” Yes, his tongue was painfully cold. Leolin pulled, trying to take the staff off. That hurt worse. The more he moved, the more of his tongue touched and froze to the burning cold staff. “We’ll get help!” The five boys leapt off the bed, jostling Leolin, and bolted for the door.

Leolin tried, and failed, to throw curses after them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wild-eyed Child of the Sun has the “informal hand-to-hand training” Cullen referred to. It’s not nearly as mutual as that name for it implies.
> 
> Did Alistair technically just lick Cullen’s lamppost? …Drystan’s sure taking it well. He would have taken it less well during the Great Rochebaron Caper, which is chapter 2 of Tactical Retreats.


End file.
